Dot your I’s, cross your T’s and get off Grindr

I have a new editor. This one is quite insistent I keep writing as he peers over my shoulder. He’s tough. He wonders why I need to keep stopping and staring at the screen. Why doesn’t this just flow?

He’s only four foot something. I should add at this point that he’s nine, and he’s related to me.

The mini-men have discovered my website and while I have talked to them about the column before, they are starting to understand the concept of being written about. Much to their disbelief over the very first column nearly five years ago where they are playing in my car with red snakes. Chicky was barely just three at the time.

Beau came over to inspect progress when my fingers stopped clicking on the keyboard. Geesch!

Apparently the only topics considered for writing are how many goals the boys scored at soccer, what was for breakfast, how many Maltesers they can stick up their nose sucking in… and so on.

Is this the sensation that Madonna felt when Lola realised her mum was a fishnet wearing trophy collector? She certainly didn’t tame down content or artistic choices – or did she? One things for sure, since the kids have enforced zero tolerance on their mums acting, we have been somewhat saved.

Let’s be honest. Any parent, famous or not, has little people who need attending to. Lola did not care about the Golden Globes outfit her mum wore before she spat up on it as a baby.

I actually had to write last week’s column underneath this one so I could get it finished. The thought of having to explain Sex and the City while replacing characters with country men, and throw Scruff and Grindr into the equation in one afternoon to someone under the age of ten is just a trifle severe for my liking.

I can’t imagine Madonna writing Erotica when there were old milk bottles in the sink or taking an afternoon nap under a Jemima Duck mobile.

I doubt she could have stripped down to just heels and earrings for the shots in Sex with a nanny on the side of a Miami highway waiting with her bored kids. No siree. I need to not come up with the writer’s version of American Life to be on the safe side.